Michael Robotham by Suspect

Author:Suspect [Suspect]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-11-25T12:57:11.046000+00:00

I jump a side gate and cross their yard, staying away from the rectangles of light shining from the windows. Daisy Franklin is in the kitchen stirring something on the stove. Two cats appear and disap�pear from under her skirt. Perhaps there's a whole family under there.

I head for a gnarled cherry tree in the back corner of the garden and lever myself upward, swinging one leg over the fence. The other leg locks up and doesn't follow. All my weight is moving forward and I deny gravity for only a split second, flapping my arms in slow mo�tion, before crashing headfirst into the compost heap.

Cursing, I crawl on my hands and knees, crushing snails under my palms, until I emerge from the fuchsias. Light spills out from the French doors. Julianne is sitting at the kitchen table, her newly washed hair wrapped in a towel.

Her lips are moving. She's talking to someone. I crane my neck to see who it is?leaning on a large Italian olive jar, which begins to topple until I rescue it with a bear hug.

A hand reaches across the table and the fingers mesh with hers. It's Jock. I feel sick. She pulls her hand away and slaps him on the wrist like she would a naughty child. Then she crosses the kitchen and bends to put coffee cups in the dishwasher. Jock watches her every movement. I want to stick needles in his eyes.

I've never been the jealous type, but I suddenly get a bizarre flashback to a former patient who was obsessed with losing his wife. She had a great figure and he kept imagining that men were staring at her breasts. Gradually, in his eyes, her breasts grew bigger and her tops became smaller and tighter. Her every movement seemed provocative. All of this was nonsense, but not to him.

Jock is a breast man. Both of his wives were surgically enhanced.

Why be satisfied with nature's meager bounty when you can be all that money can buy?

Julianne has gone upstairs to dry her hair. Jock fumbles in the pockets of his leather jacket. His shadow is framed in the French doors, just before he steps outside. Gravel crunches underfoot. A lighter flares. The cigar tip smolders.

I kick his legs out from under him, sending him tumbling back�ward, landing heavily in a shower of sparks.

"Joe!"

"Get out of my house!"

"Jesus! If there's a scorch mark on this sweater..."

"And stay away from Julianne!"

He edges away and tries to sit up.

"Why are you sneaking around out here?"

"Because the police are out front." I make it sound so obvious.

He stares at his cigar and contemplates whether to light it again.

"You had an affair with Catherine McBride. Your name is on her fucking CV!"

"Steady on, Joe. I don't know what you're..."

"You told me that you didn't know her. You saw her that night."

"No."

"You arranged to meet her."

"No comment."

"What do you mean, 'No Comment'?"

"Just that: no comment."

"This is bullshit! You arranged to meet her."

"I didn't show up."

"You're lying."

"All right, I'm lying," he says sarcastically.

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